


folie à deux ( the madness of lovers )

by siirensong



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, In which Miranda is still the only one trying to keep them all from drowning, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Illness, Mutual Pining, Police/Criminal AU, Slow Burn, Whitechapel AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 10:57:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9652928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siirensong/pseuds/siirensong
Summary: DI Thomas Hamilton is the Whitechapel police’s fastest rising star, until he finds his career supernova after his decision to save the life of his partner, rather than making the arrest of the Ripper copycat killer, costs him nearly everything. Ever since then, a disturbing pattern has begun to emerge; everyone involved in Thomas’ cases, victim and criminal alike, always die before he can resolve anything.He finally gets a spark of hope when a case comes across his desk; James Flint, the legendary crime lord, one of the most powerful men in Europe, and said to be able to bend anyone he chooses to his will, is rumored to be the origin of the incited violence in Whitechapel and beyond into London.There’s only one problem- James Flint might as well be a ghost.No one has ever seen him, or even knowingly met him. The only traces of him exist in whispers of fear of him, people too scared to talk, and an old map, found pinned amongst several articles and leaflets- all speaking of Thomas and his various cases. Flint is making it clear from the start- he isn’t the hunted; he does the hunting and is provoking a war with Thomas. What Thomas doesn’t realize is the enemy may have been beside him all along.





	

**Author's Note:**

> \- First of all, I'd like to thank my amazing wife elvensorceress for helping me and supporting me through writing this (and everything else too! ♥) And to dreamingpagan and bereweillschmidt for their lovely and much appreciated encouragement and letting me talk things about with them ^_^ ♥
> 
> \- I am trying to write this in a way where there is no need to have watched Whitechapel to enjoy and know the story, but I would still highly recommend watching it, it's an amazing show and one of my all time favorites. If you ever get confused or want to know more, please let me know. But it's got a really interesting heart and quirk that's very hard to explain, it's so lovely. Joseph Chandler is such a great character and is exactly what I envision a modern Thomas to be, or at least very very close. Other reasons it's amazing: Super interesting relationship dynamics, a main character with a mental illness that is explored with both accuracy and sensitivity and never jokingly, a main character that could be read in a myriad of sexuality spectrum including ace, Chandler/Kent, I could go on and on forever.
> 
> \- I have chosen to keep Chandler's ocd traits and give them to Thomas. The reason being, I personally have ocd (and if you ever see me complaining about anxiety this is probably why; so in some sense writing this is also kind of cathartic), and could easily see how Thomas could develop it. I also wish to keep them because ocd is almost never represented respectfully like Whitechapel has done, and I wish to keep that going. That said, if I write something that is upsetting, feel free to tell me, I would rather know than continue to keep doing it. But mostly I will be keeping the show traits in tact and a few from my own experiences.
> 
> Thank you very much for reading :D

  
_**fo·lie à deux (fô-lē′ ä dœ′, fŏl′ē) n.** \- A condition in which two individuals who share a close relationship experience the same delusions or hallucinations, most commonly occurring between lovers._

⋞ ⋟

London always leaves ruins in its wake.

This city burns you alive from the inside out and leaves nothing but embersBut he always finds a way to fan the flames.

London's great fire begets decay and at long last he can rest. There's nothing left of him nor the city, but he's won.

Flakes of ash fall from the sky like snow. They cover his dark red hair, his war-torn, leather boots, and drape on the once proud coat of a rising naval lieutenant; all artifacts of someone he doesn't know, and yet they're his all at the same time. Now, the ashes are in his lungs, are searing his skin. He’s gotten his revenge, but he's still burning. There's no one left to keep him alive.

He searches quiet streets, unwilling to die yet. He finds himself at a familiar crossroads, a town square on the bank of the Thames. There are two sets of footprints in the ashes; a pair beside his own. He’s forgotten something, something incredibly important. Someone who should be here with him, someone who's been here with him before. 

The land along the river is lined with fog and charred, battered ships that couldn't escape his wrath. Beside them stands the execution dock, a single noose hanging from it, lightly obscured by the fog and rocking about in the cold wind, as if inviting him to the end at last. This is the place where monsters go to die. Something inside him recoils at the title, but he's tired. All he's ever wanted is peace.

He stumbles towards it, welcoming the release. If he goes to his death, his suffering will end. On the other side, he'll be able to meet him again.

As he climbs up the stairs, he begins to reach for the noose but stops abruptly; the fog begins to depart, revealing a figure in its midst, cloaked in black, ragged robes and death. Its face is nebulous, a mask with only a mouth formed in despair and horror.

His feet are firmly planted to the ground, hands gripping the railing to the point of splintered skin and bare white knuckles. His knees nearly give out from under him when the figure begins to wrap the noose not around his neck, but its own. His heart pounds in his chest and deafens all noise, a fear not for himself but an irrational desperation for the creature before him. s

Sometimes he pleads with it and his voice reaches thin air; other times, it's only a silent scream. But always it ends the same – he reaches for it, and it disappears from his grasp. And always, he dies with it.

⋞ ⋟

James startles awake, his forehead covered in a cold sweat, fingers fanned and gripping the bed sheets as they had the railing in his dream. He lays there for a long while, recovering breath, waiting for his legs to regain their strength. Every night for the past five years, he's had this dream; every night it never fails to rattle him to his very core.

The man in the dream is unmistakably him, but of a different world and lifetime. But the dreams are so vivid, so repetitive, that they've begun to get under his skin. At first he dismissed them; dreams are simply that and believing in them is for the superstitious and uneducated. He doesn't need a dream to tell him he's going to die; thieves are only ever waiting for a noose. But there's something that unnerves him every time that he can't explain away; his anguish over the creature.

Beside him the television begins to announce the early morning news, the sky glowing dark blue before the sunrise. Running a hand over his face and through his hair, James finally pushes himself up, stopping himself when the woman speaks a name;

_' The police investigation team, led by DI Thomas Hamilton, has confirmed that the Ripper killer, last identified as Dr. David Cohen, has escaped and remains at large. Police are still searching for the suspect but do not believe there is any further threat to the public. Still, the public is advised to remain highly alert.. '_

Thomas Hamilton.

The name feels heavy in his chest and blooms into simmering anger as his mouth dries, disdain forming on his lips and hardening in his eyes. They meet the grey-blue of the inspector's on the screen but it's the sound of his voice that causes James to break. He picks the remote up and silence falls over the room, the plastic protesting against the wall when he roughly throws it aside.

But he can't escape, reminders of the DI are all around him – paparazzi pictures from a time when the younger Lord Hamilton was just beginning his career, a member of parliament and heir to the Hamilton family earldom. Carefully kept newspaper and tabloids from when the scandals started, when Thomas had begun a campaign to help criminals reform, arguing that there were a great deal of failures on behalf of both the crown and society that contributed to people falling into crime. More tabloids still with Alfred Hamilton seemingly spending every waking moment disapproving his son's apparent insanity; the tears in the paper ripped from the wall in rage marking the moment it all went wrong.

But the most important of all... a map of Whitechapel, red dots frantically lining the streets and buildings, all revolving around one common link, an x in the map- the police station where Thomas Hamilton resided, pictures of him pinned to the edges, as if to capture him, to record the moments where DI Hamilton had realized James Flint had bested him. 

Ever since Thomas had appeared, with his honey-laced words that were all too sincere for a politician, idealism that no one wanted to hear, somehow had captivated all of England, even though most adamantly denied any association with him. James had been instantly curious; he'd never seen another like him – Thomas' ability to hang others on his every word no matter what he said, pure sincerity in opposition to James' lies, both utilizing the same modus operandi; appealing to what people most needed to hear. It was only natural that one day they would find themselves at war, a war the DI had provoked simply being who he was. 

James lingers in the dark, peering out through the blinds, a telescope beside him aimed toward the entrance to the police station below, where uniforms and detectives alike were beginning to arrive. He had watched each of them for months on end, studying all of them carefully; their conversations, their feelings, their dynamics, their relationships, how they carried themselves, all unaware of the threat looming above.

On his bedstand, James' mobile begins to vibrate, pulling him out of his thoughts. His jaw clenches when he sees the number lit up on the screen, and for a brief moment he contemplates answering with a resounding 'fuck off,' but he answers, settling for silence instead.

The other voice is gravelly, as if on an unstable connection. “The Whitechapel police station in 1 hour.”

“Not interested,” James replies icily.

“I don't think I've made myself clear. That wasn't a question. And I know you'll heed, because you remember what happened the last time you tried to move against me.”

James' face pales, something internal and primal surfacing. It takes acts of God to elicit fear in his heart, and only one person alive has ever been successful in doing so. Instinctively, James' fingertips move to his right bicep, tracing the small, faded black crescent moon tattoo, half-scarred over from the crude manner it had been etched into his skin. There's a slight quiver in his touch, memories of hell resurfacing, his jaw clenching again. He won't go back to being nothing, being treated like something inhuman, a monster, being broken over and over again. He begins pacing, like an animal in a cage, head shaking disbelievingly.

He glances out the window, noticing one particular soul who'd started to walk towards the station. He'd recognize the lean, tall, blond form of Thomas Hamilton from miles away. The sight of him sends James crashing back to reality, but the uncharacteristic falter, which would be otherwise undetectable to anyone who didn't know him, has already given him away. The voice on the other side takes on an amused tone. “And in case you would have any further notions of resisting, I would hurry out the door if I were you.”

His face falls, and James peers between the blinds, face curling into a snarl when he sees the swarm of uniforms descend on the entrances to the building. “You fucking bastard,” James roars.

“Across the street. 58 minutes. You know where to find me,” the voice trails off, cutting the dead air off with a click.

⋞ ⋟

His face is solemn and drained, eyes lined in heavy dark circles, guilt gnawing at his stomach, but Thomas Hamilton still has the courage to show his face anyway.

He sees it in the looks of pity and disappointment that appear on his colleagues faces the moment he steps out of the car. Still, he meets their gazes, shrugging it off. He's endured far worse, but what truly bothers him is the apathy; he's saved the lives of both the would-be final victim and his sergeant. But because the killer had fled, he was still seen as a failure, despite his choice to save lives instead of pursue, even with the psychological profiling to back up his decision. But they'd also made clear from the start they didn't want his job or want to help him; they just wanted to watch him go down in flames.

But his true upset is for one of his team, DC Miranda Barlow, for the other lives he was unable to save because he'd always been one step behind. He'd always had the heart for saving people, but no true way to be effective at it. Shuffling up the stairs through desks and to his office, Thomas finds printed papers laying neatly on his own desk, detailing Miranda's status in the hospital since her wounding and near death when she tried to subdue the killer herself, having riskily made herself into a decoy to keep the last victim safe.

_'As of 04:45 this morning, DC Barlow has regained consciousness, but remains in serious condition due to the amount of blood lost. There are severe contusions around her neck, but injury is minimal. The puncture wound she suffered to her upper abdomen narrowly missed her lung. However, she has been fighting steadily and has gone from critical to serious, but stable condition. She is expected to make a full recovery at this time.'_

He'd sat up all night, wracked with guilt. He wanted to go to her, to apologize, to make everything right, but every time he'd rehearsed the words in his head, they disappeared into thin air. Somewhere along the way, their initially antagonistic working relationship had become so much more, and the thought that he'd allowed her to fall into any sort of danger was unforgivable. He remembered her scream and her body sprawled on the floor and bloody from when she had bought just enough time for him to arrive and deter the killer who'd eventually run. Miranda had nearly died to save another, and though he couldn't be more in awe of her, the sight of her like that is a horror he never wants to see again.

Another paper beside it informs him of his other partner, Ray Miles, who also suffered a knife wound to the liver in an attempt to apprehend the killer when Miranda fell. _'...punctured liver tissue, however damage is reversible, blood loss was stopped in time, he is expected to make a full recovery.'_

Unable to read anymore, breath and hands shaky at the fresh memories, Thomas places the papers back on his desk, running a hand over his face and squeezing his eyes shut. When he finally regains composure, he eyes another paper on his desk – a printed sheet requesting his presence before Commander Rogers. He already knows what's coming of course. But he's endured far worse from someone far less respectable. 

Still, another jolt of dread shoots through him, and Thomas feels the knot forming in his stomach while the voices of his inner demons whisper on his shoulder. He reaches for the small glass jar of tiger balm placed carefully beside his phone with precise even spacing, pen and watch also carefully aligned with them. Dabbing the balm on his temples, he takes a steadying breath before walking through the department – mercifully no one seems to be around; a fact he finds rather curious – up the small set of stairs and onto the lift.

Through the glass door, Commander Woodes Rogers beckons Thomas inside, looking far less than pleased, the day's newest tabloid in his hand. Thomas folds his hands in front on him, shoving down his dread and meeting Rogers' eyes squarely. He's never backed down before and isn't about to start now.

Rogers wastes no time, thrusting the tabloid in his direction to the tip of his desk. Thomas briefly glances down at it, the unflattering picture of him and bold words printed with 'incompetent' lingering above it. He quiets the momentary pangs of anger, reminding himself that other people's judgments of him are none of his concern. 

“Care to explain this?” Rogers asks, decidedly unimpressed. 

Thomas bristles, but his body betrays nothing. “There's nothing to explain, Sir. I was given the choice to save the life of my colleagues or pursue, and I chose my team. I also saved the life of the would-be final victim. And yet, I am told this is a failure. I seem to be under the mistaken impression that we are here to protect lives.”

“You are here to keep the criminal element under control. I understand you care about her, but DC Barlow understood the risks involved when she took the job, as did you. You had an obligation to bring the suspect into custody. And because of your incompetence, he's back on the streets, likely to kill again, costing even more lives,” Rogers says coldly, rising from his chair.

“With all due respect –“

Rogers puts his hand up, cutting Thomas short. “I understand that you're on some sort of crusade to save the world, but this is not Parliament, your name and titles mean nothing here. You either take the orders you are given or I suggest you find another line of work.”

By this point, Thomas can feel his blood pressure rising, his hands subconsciously dropping to his sides, balled and prepared to defend himself, a habit he'd learned in days spent facing down his father's tyranny. “He isn't going to kill again. His entire motivation was to become a myth, like the first Jack the Ripper. He won't get a chance to kill a Mary Kelley ever again and I believe he'll turn up in a suicide, nothing left to live for.”

“Answer me this,” Rogers says, moving to stand directly in front of Thomas. “Let's say you're wrong, and a serial killer is now loose in the streets, and you knew this. Would that have changed your decision to let him go?”

Thomas deflates, fists unfurling at his sides in defeat, the lump in the back of his throat growing. The part of him that was his father's son, knows the expected answer, the vulnerability creeping in. This part of him screams to say “yes.” But that part of him that doesn't belong to his father, the part that fought and bled and escaped, that will never be a victim again, remains defiant. “No.”

Nodding smugly, Rogers walks over to the window, looking out over the increasingly busy street below. “I'm afraid that the fast-track we promised you ends here. We'll have to give the position of DCI to someone else. I'll give you one last chance to prove yourself as a DI, however. From today, you can begin working on the James Flint case.”

“Sir?”

“As I'm sure you're aware, James Flint has long since been causing us problems and is rumored to be the cause of the spike in violent crime in recent years, accompanied by a rise in gang-related warfare. The problem for us is, much like your Ripper case, the man is a ghost, changing identities and stories so many times that no one knows what the truth is anymore. Your task is to find the true Flint and bring him to heel.”

Thomas' lips part slightly, his face showing confusion. “I'm not sure I understand. You think me incompetent, but you would have me solving a case that even our best can't crack. Why? Why not let Organized Crime have a go at it?”

Rogers doesn't turn back to acknowledge him, his tone leaving little room for argument. “My reasons are my own. If you don't want it, you can turn in your badge and uniform and be on your way. If you're cooperating, you can join your colleagues across the road at the Royal Duchess, where we believe we've discovered James Flint's most recent whereabouts.”

“Across the road? He’s been watching us?”

“That's your question to answer, Inspector, not mine.”

Thomas stands in silence. On one hand, he isn't ready to relinquish this career that fast. But there's something off about this entire situation that he can't grasp, a bad feeling settling in his chest. Despite this, there's still a siren's call in him, a feeling of preordained fate that he's meant to do this. It has to be him. Much like Frederick Abberline and the Ripper, Leonard “Nipper” Read and the Kray twins, he and Flint are destined for history.

“I'll begin right away,” Thomas says, before opening the door to leave.

“Good. I'll be watching you with earnest.”

Nodding, Thomas makes his way back to the lift without another word. The doors close before he sees Rogers pick the mobile from his desk.

“He's agreed. It's time.”

⋞ ⋟

Pausing outside the station, Thomas rounds the corner, stopping to observe the chaotic scene outside and collect himself.

He looks over at the old, white building across the road, through the middle window on the third floor, where uniforms are in a flurry of activity. Flint has clearly been watching them, but Thomas can't wrap his mind around the motive. Has Flint been planning to move against them? That in itself seemed odd; they were one regular station in a sea of many. Flint could have much more consequential enemies in MI-5 or the government itself. In the criminal hierarchy, Flint is king and law throughout not only London, but all of Europe. He has the power to take on far larger enemies if he desires. Why would he choose them?

The bad feeling settling in his chest grows worse; the Commander knows something and is hiding it, but Thomas shakes it off and walks over to the door of The Royal Duchess. Once inside, he pulls out latex gloves and spots a man at the front desk, looking around the room, pale and fidgeting, like he'd rather be anywhere but here. He startles when Thomas approaches him and swallows hard. Thomas puts on a comforting smile and holds up his identification. “DI Thomas Hamilton. Are you the innkeeper here? I need to ask you a few questions-”

The man's eyes widened, and he took a step back, knocking into the lamp on the counter and causing it to fall in a loud crash. The man fumbles to pick it up, backing away from Thomas. “I'm sorry. I-I can't. I've a family and I can't let them get hurt.”

Thomas stepped toward him, putting his hands up in a way that suggested he meant no harm, but the man still wasn't having it. Thomas reached out to place a hand on his shoulder, but quickly dropped it when his own anxiety set in. “I promise nothing will happen to you, or to them. We will even place uniforms to protect you at all times if it would help your peace of mind. But I need your help, or the man who threatened you will continue-”

This time, the innkeeper whirled on him, yelling frantically. “What can you do? You think you can stop him? You couldn't even catch the Ripper, why should I believe that you of all people will keep us safe?”

The words lash into Thomas like a hot, blinding white light, stunning him numb. Swallowing, he opens his mouth to speak, but can't find any words that don't sound hollow and empty. The other man is clearly too terrified to talk, so instead he backs away, turning towards the staircase, only to meet DC Kent's sympathetic eyes. The two share an unspoken exchange, Thomas twisting the signet ring on his right pinky under his gloves, not quite ready to look him in the eye. Kent speaks first. “It'll pass, Sir. It's only the day after, they'll forget all about it soon enough. I thought what you did was very admirable.”

Thomas nods, but the words do little to cheer him. Still he's grateful for Kent's reassurance and offers him a small smile. “Thank you.”

Kent is about to speak again, but is interrupted by DC Mansell, who hurries by with a box full of papers torn from walls, one of them fluttering to the floor in the breeze of haste. “Yeah, he's a real angel of death, ain't he?” Mansell remarks, earning a glare and an elbow to the stomach from Kent. Mansell whirls around to snap at Kent, but stops short when he notice's Thomas' forlorn mood. “I mean... in a good way, of course,” he finishes awkwardly before hurrying out the door.

“That's oddly the nicest thing anyone's said all day,” Thomas smirks, bending down to pluck the paper that had dropped on the ground. But the lighthearted mood falters when he glances at the page. There, printed in black and white, an old tabloid clipping from his time as a member of parliament, about a girl he'd once tried to help, and whose disappearance haunted him even now. 

The girl was the daughter of his friend, a fellow lord of parliament. She'd sought his help on numerous occasions when her father had begun taking on crime syndicates in the greater London area. While his friend's ambition blinded him to the danger his daughter was in, a man by the name of Ned Low had begun to threaten her with harm should her father not rescind his activities. Her pleas had gone largely unheeded by her father, his arrogance such that he was confident no harm would ever come to her because no one would ever dare take him on. Terrified, she'd begun to seek Thomas' help instead. But it was far too late, and before he could do anything to save her, Ned Low had been discovered dead, and the girl no where to be found.

The tabloids had a field day, the assumption made that the girl had murdered him, having taken on the same obsession with bringing criminals to justice as her father. What they conveniently omitted was the part about how Ned Low's gang had recovered and was out for revenge, pressuring the media into slandering her and her father. Rather than a killing in self-defense, it had turned into a troubled girl's rebellious teenage act.

Thomas brushes his glove over the ink in disbelief; the headline reads, “Redemption for a monster?” The reporter proceeded to mock him endlessly for his efforts to help find the girl, unwilling to see any reason or virtue or hope. Just another sad life who'd gotten what they deserved.

“Where did this come from?” Thomas asks, alarmed.

“It came from Flint's room, Sir. There's a lot of them, all kinds of articles and photographs,” Kent replies, motioning up the stairs. He fights to keep the tinge of worry and jealousy out of his voice, but it doesn't quite work. “They're in his room, everywhere. He seems to be rather obsessed with you.”

“Excuse me,” Thomas murmurs, rushing up the stairs past Kent and several uniforms, finding himself at the entrance to Flint's room.

Still taped and pinned around half the room were the articles and pictures of him Kent had spoken of, uniforms taking them down carefully. Another uniform is dismantling an expensive telescope that's currently aimed out the window- right into his office. On the wall next to it, a map of Whitechapel with no landmarkings covered in a sea of red spots, all revolving around one cleared area.

Walking around the room, Thomas' fingertips brushed over the ink and paper of his past, a mixture of horror, shock, and fascination washing over him, like Quixote staring down his windmills. 

This is, of course, Flint's known modus operandi – know everything there is to know about your enemy, expose and exploit the weaknesses, discover the strengths and destroy them. Being the head of the unit, he'd be the obvious target; cut down the leader and you defeat the entire operation. But there's a part of him he tries to quell, rather unsuccessfully, that takes a certain amount of pleasure at the fact that Flint feels he's dangerous enough to warrant his personal attention. Flint could go against anyone he chose, but chose _him._

Kent shuffles in behind him, waiting patiently for Thomas to notice his presence. When it's clear that Thomas is completely lost to his thoughts, Kent clears his throat gently and picks at his thumbnail. “Sir? Our orders?”

Thomas jolts back to reality, turning back to face him, still bewildered, a slow smile blooming on his lips.

"Sir? Aren't you concerned about this even a little? This looks exactly like the Ripper's room where he was figuring out which victims to target."

Thomas gestures around the room as if talking to someone only he could see. "Flint isn't a serial killer. His are not random acts of violence, he always has a motive and a reason to go after certain people. He has all of this because he wants to know me, to get inside my head. It's an open invitation, a challenge, a conquest. He'll be coming after me alone, and that gives us an advantage.”

Kent looks away to the side, at a loss for words, his worry increasing instead of being assuaged. "With all due respect Sir, I'm not sure I see the difference. "

Thomas turns back to him, the smile fading into a questioning look, his voice becoming tinged with slight frustration. “It doesn't matter. Leave that up to me. Finish boxing all of this, please.”

Nodding hesitantly, Kent begins peeling paper and photographs off the wall. He'd always stood behind Thomas before anyone else did, and the thought that he might not be able to this time, bothers him deeply.

⋞ ⋟

 

He strolls through the doors of the station in hurricane force, stoicism written across his face, but inside, he's ready to rip anyone into pieces who dares cross his path. The uniforms look at him curiously, but pay him no mind, as if he belongs there, but he already knows better – they were commanded to ignore him. They have absolutely no idea who he is. Such is the arrogance of Peter Ashe. Ashe sets the uniforms on him, then forces him to walk into the lion's den, knowing he can't refuse, knowing his hands are tied.

If he had any sense, he'd beat the bastard senseless and bloody, but there are cameras everywhere, and no time or chances to dismantle them. Pressing the button for the lift, he gets on, a younger uniform following him in, but one look in Flint's direction, and the uniform decides he doesn't need the lift that badly.

Staring through the window to the city below, the sun begins to peak through the morning clouds, casting a gold light on ginger locks, and giving a slight sheen to the black leather of his trench coat, the only thing he managed to grab before fleeing the authorities. 

Almost the only thing.

Reaching into one of his pockets, he pulls out a single polaroid photograph, the only one he saw fit to save. He isn't sure why this one has captivated him, but the thought of leaving it behind was unbearable. It had been some gala or another, one those high class affairs where all the royal society and politicians would gather and pat themselves on the back for saving all the orphans, or some shit like that. The thought never failed to fill him with rage; they only acknowledged the presence of the less fortunate unless they could be exploited, toys to be used and discarded once their usefulness had been served.

It had been held in his one-time home after his grandfather passed away, an orphanage he kept coming back to when he felt hopeless, looking for something he'd lost in the crumbling walls and desolate atmosphere. But he'd never found it. 

That is, until Thomas Hamilton had appeared before him. The first time he'd ever seen him in person.

In a room full of mindless, heartless beings, Thomas was the only among them who was alive, something had burrowed itself deep in his chest and dug in, unwilling to leave. Why Alfred Hamilton had ordered him to kill someone so beautiful, was beyond him. He'd tried to convince himself it was all for show, that Thomas was exactly like the rest of them, but when Thomas knelt to the floor before a pair of children, dressed in a sharp suit and thousand kilowatt smile, bestowing each of them with small, gleaming treasures he deemed lucky. James had felt his heartbeat slip. An agent for MI-6, his very life depended on knowing everyone around him better than they knew themselves, and there was simply no faking the kindness he'd seen in those blue eyes.

James holds onto the photograph like a superstition as if even the memory of Thomas' presence is enough to save him. 

But it won't. It'll never be enough.

Thomas Hamilton had turned out just like the others after all. 

The bitter taste in his mouth has his fingers grasping at the picture, aching to crush it and dispose of it for good. But he can never seem to let go, so James shoves the photo back into his pocket, internally cursing himself when he feels it crinkle slightly.

The doors of the lift open to the floor, detectives busily tapping away at computers and talking on phones, too involved to notice him. James has to fight back every instinct he has to keep from ripping the sign off the wall next on the office door: Peter Ashe, DCI, Organised Crime Division. The pure disgust and hate he feels is enough to wash away the previous anxiety during their phone call.

He flings the door open, purposefully causing it to crash against the window pane in the wall beside it, though Peter refuses to give him the satisfaction of a glance, plenty used to James' storms. “Ah yes, please do come in James. Always such a pleasure.”

James walks over, placing both palms on the desk, ripping the papers from Ashe's grip and flinging them violently across the room. “The fuck were you thinking?”

Sighing, Peter calmly tilted his head to look up at him in annoyance, with an underlying warning. “Reminding you of your true place in the world. Let's be clear, the only reason you're standing here is because I allowed it. If I wanted them to apprehend you, I assure you they would have.”

Anger simmers beneath the surface, James leans in even closer, bright green eyes growing dark. “You wanted _exactly_ that. The reason I'm standing here, you arrogant fuck, is because I've seen what happens to those you no longer have any use for. You know goddamn well I'm no longer on your leash and you wanted to reprimand me. I've seen what happens to those you no longer have any use for, and I assure you, that will never be me.”

Peter smiles, breathing a small, mirthless laugh. “That already was you, or have you forgotten?”

James pushes himself back upright, ignoring Peter's attempt to get under his skin a second time. “Get on with it, you shit. What do you want?”

Peter sits back in his chair, resting his hand with fingers curled against his mouth, looking James over thoughtfully, trying to get a read for how he might react. Whether James Flint left in a body bag, or was left dead along with Thomas Hamilton, it did not matter to him. “I have a proposition that I feel may mutually benefit both of us.”

This puts James instantly on edge, though his face betrays nothing, lips set in a thin, hard line, eyes unflinching and cold. Nothing could ever convince him to trust this man to help him. “And what is that exactly?”

“I want you to help me get rid of DI Thomas Hamilton.”

Taken aback, every nerve on edge like he'd been struck by lightning, it's the only weakness that could have possibly taken him by surprise. His jaw clenches, before he wets his dry lips with his tongue. The knot in his stomach is a surprise. Thomas Hamilton means nothing to him. “You've got to be joking. The man is a failed officer with a superhero complex, and you honestly expect me to believe you need help taking him down? He's not even worth the time.”

But Peter hadn't missed the flicker of despair in James' eyes – he had him right where he wanted him. And once you knew a man's weakness, you could bend it to your will. “On the contrary, DI Hamilton is a dangerous man. Taking monsters off the streets to try and reform them? To let them go with the simple belief that they will behave themselves if given the chance to return to society? Just give them free chances like they've done nothing wrong? It's absurd.”

James recovers quickly, and this time, it's his turn to smile. “So in other words, you hate the competition. You both want the same thing, it just so happens that his methods are far less crude and less about you than you'd care for.”

Leaning back in his chair, Peter folds his hands in his lap and crosses his legs, a look of astonishment on his face. “I'm sorry, am I to assume there's a problem? Last I heard, you were plotting a move against the police force, starting with Whitechapel. DI Hamilton is a major part of that, logically he should already be on your hitlist, yes? Or is there something between you and he that I'm not aware of? Perhaps I should end it for you if that's the case, in honor of our history.”

This time, James didn't flinch. He'd become an expert at burying his heart a long time ago, in a place where it could never be found. He can walk away now, and he might find something resembling peace once Thomas' downfall is complete. “That won't be necessary. But I will it do it myself, in my own time, and my own way. I don't need a partner.”

And maybe, if he repeats it enough to that heart buried deep down, it might one day believe it also. 

“Of course,” Peter says, rising from his chair, satisfied, though he doesn't miss there's no denial of feelings in James' words. Just as well; he can use that later. Walking over to him, Peter places a hand on James' right arm, but the underlying threat is unmistakable. “As long as you don't fail, you and I will have no problem. Now, shall I offer you an in?”

James swallows the dread down, the crescent moon burning beneath leather, but he makes no move to resist.

Motioning his head upward, a man walks in, moves beside Peter. 

“Mister Logan,” Peter says, “One of yours, I believe. Let's have a chat about what's to happen, shall we?”

⋞ ⋟

He's waited for this moment for years.

Descending the marble stairs and leaving the insufferable Ashe behind, he's looking forward to this. James fixes his black tie, the dark blue of his suit tightly buttoned and sharp; everything has to be perfect. He wants Thomas – _no, **DI Hamilton** ; this needs to be **impersonal**._

But he doesn't miss the way his body continues to betray him; the slight hesitation in his hand, the butterflies igniting in his stomach, the scream inside his head that sounds a bit too much like 'this is wrong.' Once he turns that corner, Thomas Hamilton will be before him, will know him, will know the man he destroyed. _'But he won't know the real you,'_ a voice inside quips. 

_'Why would you want him to?'_ asks another. _'He already believes you're a monster.'_

Forcibly ignoring them both, James finds himself acutely aware of each step he takes as he pushes through the glass doors of the incident room. He steels himself for the confrontation, but one glance in Thomas' direction and he finds his steps faltering, his breath escaping him.

There, every bit as beautiful as he remembers, is Thomas with his bright smile and kind eyes, laughing with an older man at the back of the room. More than Peter Ashe, more than parliament and its traitors, he hates Thomas' ability to disarm him.

Unaware of the eyes set on him, Thomas is scowling, gesturing to the office at large, though he has a hard time keeping the grin off his face. Miles was back to his old self, and Thomas has never been happier to hear his scathing wit.

“What the hell are you doing here Miles? You should still be in a bed. I've got it covered, I have them-”

“Oi!” Miles protested, “I'm gone one day and you suddenly don't need me anymore? It's just a scratch for god's sake, not the end of the world! And you might forget to feed the fish! ”

“You're going to reopen your wounds!”

“Bugger off! If it happens, then you can send me back, but right now I ain't spending another damn second in that hell hole! You're worse than Judy for Christ's sake.”

Thomas laughs. “Does that make me your work husband?”

Miles grins in return. “Aye, but don't tell Kent. Or Miranda. _Especially_ Miranda. She'll have my head for sure.”

When Thomas only gives him a perplexed, slightly horrified look, Miles busts up laughing. “My god, you're hopeless.”

He blinks, but Thomas closes his eyes, rubbing his forehead between his fingers, desperate to change the subject, still wholly unaware of what Miles was even referring to. “The minute you start having trouble, you're going right back, and that's an order.”

Miles pats Thomas on the arm, to which Thomas momentarily panics, but manages to shrug it off anyway. “Good, glad we had this chat. So, new one already?” Miles asks, gesturing to the whiteboards behind them. 

Thomas opens his mouth to answer him, but stops before he can speak. He feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up, there's a twinge tightening in his chest. His eyes search the room for the source of his discomfort, but finds nothing except the small sea familiar faces. Just as he begins to shrug it off, his eyes lay on a man walking toward them. His heart skips a beat, and he swallows the lump forming in his throat, a curious nostalgia that has appeared from nowhere, as though he's reliving a memory he's never experienced.

Miles, catching on to the fact Thomas is no longer listening, turns to look where he is and instantly balks. “Who the hell is that?”

Thomas doesn't turn back to him or answer him, keeping his eyes focused on James as Miles' words fade into the background. There were so many things familiar about this man, almost intimately so. The lines of his body, the way his freckles dotted across fair skin, the way his ginger locks gleamed in the light, his walking stride. 

“Looks like one of those stuffed shirt blokes from one of them spy movies,” Miles mutters.

James locks eyes with Thomas and recoils internally. He'd expected to have been met with revulsion; Thomas thought him a monster and ordered him cast aside. But everything James sees in his eyes is the exact opposite – kindness, and even awe. But what he doesn't see, bothers him even more – no light of recognition. 

Either Thomas has forgotten him completely, proving how little he cared, or never knew of him at all and didn't care for him at all, and both are equally unpalatable. The discomfort only serves to harden him, and he chides himself for falling for lying blue eyes yet again.

When James finally reaches him, he makes damn sure his face is unreadable; he won't be taken in again. Reaching out a hand, James keeps his eyes on Thomas and his voice even. “DI Hamilton? DS Miles?”

Thomas stands there for a few moments, before blinking and snapping out of it, though his eyes continue to roam over James in bewilderment, still unable to clearly grasp what he's feeling. Without thinking, he takes James' hand, causing Miles to look down at the gesture in surprise. Thomas couldn't handle people touching him usually, not even him, but he'd done it with such ease now. The only other who he allowed near him in such a way recently was Miranda. 

“Yes,” Thomas murmurs. “How can we help you?”

James pushes back the pang of anger he feels at the words, his jaw clenching with the effort. “James McGraw. I've been transferred to your division as of this morning.”

This puts Miles' back up instantly. “Hang on a minute, we aren't expecting anyone new? What is this?”

James ignores him, keeping his attention fixated on Thomas, keeping the handshake lingering for just a bit too long. “The order came down an hour ago. I hope there won't be a problem.”

He finally drops their hands, brushing the soft skin of Thomas' inner wrist as they parted. Thomas fights the shiver that runs down his spine and over his skin.

“McGraw was it?” Miles tries once more to interject, “How come we ain't heard of you around the station before?”

James finally regards him, his eyes narrowing into an icy look. “I've been sent by MI5. We've gotten word you're trying to apprehend James Flint and Flint's activities are a matter of national security. My orders are to assist DI Hamilton as head of the investigation and aid in Flint's capture.”

Before Thomas can open his mouth to speak, Miles pushes in front of him, getting into James' space. “We don't need you here! We've gotten along just fine without your help and we don't need to start now!”

“I see,” James says, looking back to Thomas pointedly. “Is that why the Ripper is back on the streets then?”

“Oi! That's below the belt! You weren't there! We did everything we bloody could! And if it wasn't for him, I wouldn't even be here!”

It takes every scrap of willpower James possesses not to throw all caution to the wind and kill them both here. He manages to restrain himself but for the knot of rage pooling in his stomach; that Thomas would care at all for this prat and throw him away cuts James more deeply than he'd care to admit. “I understand, Sergeant,” he says, his voice dropping a degree below dangerous, “But I'm afraid my orders are not up for negotiation.”

Miles pushes against him even further. “I'll tell you what you can do with your orders--” 

An exasperated Thomas finally intervenes, placing an arm between them and pushing Miles back. “That's enough, Miles. You're going to pop your stitches if you don't calm down. Go find Buchan so we can begin.”

Miles glares daggers at both of them and purposefully bumps into James' shoulder hard as he walks by. “Tch. By all means, let's add that lunatic to this.”

Once Miles is sufficiently out of earshot, Thomas turns back to James and offers a smile. While he doesn't relish having MI5 involved anymore than Miles does, the past weeks' failures still weigh heavily on him. If having MI5 involved will keep Flint's death and chaos at bay, he's willing to take the hits. He can't afford to have that voice in his ear again, the one that sounds all too suspiciously like his father, whispering failure yet again. Even if it makes him look like a fool. “Please forgive him. He's been through a lot the past few days. But I welcome your partnership. Strange pairs can achieve much and it would be helpful to have a different perspective.”

The humble quiet of Thomas' response throws him off. James feels his rage deflate as something flickers across Thomas' face that resembles something James would rather not deal with, but he's not quite willing to let the wall fall again just yet. Thomas Hamilton is a paradox of three different men; an enemy, a falsely good man, and someone he might have come to love in another life. He still can't figure out which one he's dealing with. James reaches out a hand yet again, craving a touch that ended too soon. Thomas, surprised, takes it, a relieved smile coming to his face, and James, in turn, gives him a half smile. “Very well.”

Speaking of strange pairs, their interlude is interrupted by the arrival of Edward Buchan with a projector, Homicide and Serious Crimes' new historical researcher. While most dismissed him as a fool, Thomas quickly learned Buchan's value when he'd been the only one right about the new string of murders being copycatted from Jack the Ripper. He appreciated Buchan's quirkiness and ability to see through the eyes of others and was hoping Buchan would have some insight into Flint.

“Attention everyone!” Buchan claps, demanding the attention of the room and met with rolling eyes and knowing smiles. “May I have your attention please!”

Once everyone settles, Buchan turns the projector on, and the light beams an image of a black pirate flag, emblazoned with a white skeleton, a sword in one hand, an hourglass in the other. The picture elicits further snickering from the detective team. Miles throws his hands up in the air at the sight. “Are we really gonna do this every time? Pirates? You can't be bloody serious.”

Buchan makes a dismissive motion with his hand. “I am very serious my friend. If you do not know history, you will be doomed to repeat it.”

“That still don't answer what the hell pirates have to do with this,” Miles quips, sending a desperate look in Thomas' direction, as if to ask, _'Have you lost it?'_

Thomas dismisses him with a coy smile and a shrug while Buchan continues. “Pirates have everything to do with it! Pirates were the organised gangs of their time, plundering, raiding, and rebelling against the system. And interestingly enough, our Flint shares a namesake with one of the most notorious and feared pirate captains in all creation: Captain James Flint. And through the Captain, we may yet learn the way to bring our Flint down.”

The room grows quieter in curiosity, but James has to stifle a laugh. This is the team that will bring about his downfall? He is decidedly going to be waiting awhile.

“The year is 1715, during a time that is known as the golden age of piracy, in which theft, violence, and rebellion against the crown reign over the West Indies. One of the most feared figures of the time is Captain James Flint, as well as his equally feared Quartermaster. This,” Buchan says, gesturing to the black flag on the screen, “was the symbol of their crew. The hourglass meant that time was running out for their victims to surrender, or be completely destroyed by sword and cannon. It's also interesting then to note that our Flint operates in much the same way; slowly wearing down his victims until they either wake up or find themselves ruined. The thing that was said to be so dangerous about Flint was his charm and charisma, and his ability to bend men to his will no matter what he asked of them, even asking them to go to their own deaths. And by the time they would realize they were under his spell, it would already be much too late -- ”

“All right, all right, we get the picture. Get on with it,” Miles growls.

“I'm just trying to give you all the details,” Buchan grumbles, flipping the image to an ink drawing of square rigger ship, entitled “The Walrus.” “In June of 1706, the first reports of Captain Flint raiding merchant ships in the West Indies began to surface, and for ten long years Flint's reign befell the islands of the Caribbean and Bahamas, in particular New Providence Island and the port of Nassau. It was said that Flint had proclaimed himself king of the new world, until his Quartermaster succeeded him. Flint was determined to unite all pirate crews under his rule and expel the crown, much like our present day Flint with the gangs of London.”

Flipping the image again, it changes to yet another ink drawing, this time of a noose and gallows labelled “Wapping Docks.” “In December of 1716, Flint's reign of tyranny has been brought to an end by the governor of the island of New Providence, a man named Woodes Rogers. Isn't it fascinating how history repeats?” he chuckles, though the room stays silent. Clearing his throat, he shrugs it off and continues.

“After a short, but no less violent war saw Flint's defeat at the Battle of Nassau, Flint is said to have been defeated after Governor Rogers exploited one of Flint's greatest weaknesses. It was this weakness that finally caused Flint to surrender himself, and where he was then brought back to London to be tried and hanged. This picture depicts the gallows of the Wapping docks where Flint was said to be hanged. Most pirates were brought back here to be hanged in front of ruthless crowds and many of those who witnessed Flint's execution tell stories of how Flint escaped his fate along with another. Other tales speak of Flint's ghost, wandering the banks of the Thames in Wapping, looking for the treasure he was said to have buried and lost. Some question if Flint ever truly existed at all, or was in truth a cautionary tale meant to deter others from engaging in piracy.”

James shifts in place, eyes staring hard at the noose on the screen. A chill runs down his spine, but he quickly brushes it off, dismissing it as coincidence. Thomas looks over at him, noticing his distress. James berates himself for letting his guard down in front of him, but something about being in Thomas' presence, even merely laying eyes on him, always puts him at ease without fail, even when he tries to will it otherwise. God help him if the man were ever to discover it.


End file.
